Stream of Thought.
(Monday, January 29, 2007)
Last week, I began the exercise of doing some stream of consciousness, so to speak, journaling. It's been a long time since I've written anything but poetry, and seeing as though fiction was my first passion, and that I truly hope to embed it into my life now and in the future, I figured it was time to stop planning about when I'd begin to write again, and just do it!
Despite feeling pulled in a million directions and trying to dive headfirst into every little thing I do, I, for ONCE, started slow. I didn't promise myself I'd write for half an hour, when I can barely (okay, absolutely can't) find time to sit and read leisurely for half an hour amidst all I need to do each day... instead, I promised myself ten minutes. Just to get the creative muscle a little exercise. And so far, it's worked. And guess what? I'm already formulating ideas in my head, fleshing out characters, scenes... it's amazing how a little bit can do a lot. I invite everyone to try... and if you do, I'd love to see it -- please share!
The exercise: Pen and paper. Ten minutes: don't let your hand stop moving even if you run out of ideas or things to say or misspell something or can't think of a word -- just write, for the sake of writing. It's not about quality, necessarily. Also, don't think about what you're going to write before you start. Look at the clock, and start, no prior plans, just whatever's in your head. (You will continue to note my obsession with weeping willow trees in this writing, hehe.)
My first effort:
Under the weeping willow tree, there sits perched a girl. She is not six or twenty-six; she is ageless. Her knees are knobby and her elbows scraped. her hair is knotted and between her toes are prickly briars. She is a map of childhood, every beauty mark, bruise, band-aid a symbol along some vast, neverending, never present road. And yet she goes nowhere. Here she sits. Her skirt is woolen, the fabric pilled and worn thin on the rear, for she sits often; but she runs and jumps and skips even more. She climbs the very tree, hidden and curtained by its languid vines, cradled by its sprawling limbs. The knots of the branches are her steps. Her fingers close around each knob, long, splindly fingers, nails chewed back and raw. She lets the tree become her throne. Some days...but not today. Today she sits on a bed of summer grass, her feet bare. Between her wiggling toes, she strokes stems of vibrant dandelions. She plucks a blade of grass and chews upon it, a book spread wide open upon her lap. She reads. A bee buzzes past, a butterfly flits up above in the leaves, but mostly she is alone. The vines sway soothingly, brushing together in a soft, afternoon song.
.................................................
On a sidenote: I have spent a lot of time creating a new layout for the Diaries, and learning my first bit of CSS. It all looked great as I was testing it out. Unfortunately, when I tried working it into my Blogger template and it's just... not working. Perhaps this is why so many switch over to Wordpress or Typepad -- is it doable, or is Blogger just quite incompatible with CSS, or just my CSS, or what! Not to mention I uploaded to the new Blogger, and it's messed things up quite a lot. At any rate, what do you recommend? Wordpress, Typepad? Is it worth it?
© Megan K. 2006-2007
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Oh, how I loved this, Meg... your writing just transports me. I love this girl already...
I do the same thing with my poetry- I just write it and I rarely edit- and I am always happy with what comes out. No judgement, no frustration, just beautiful words...
Your design is so sweet... I am sorry you spent all that time on creating a new layout- I hoep someone can offer you some help!
You are an amazing writer. I love that story. I could totally feel myself slip into her persona.